Seven Days of Christmas
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: It's Lacey and Gold's first Christmas together. Gold's looking forward to the holidays, but Lacey's not a big fan of Christmas. They decide to surprise each other with presents. Cue ridiculous misunderstandings and fluff.
1. Days One and Two

**_Day 1_**

"People do this for fun?" Lacey grouses, crossing her arms over her chest as Gold drags the tree into the street where the Cadillac is parallel parked. She frowns down at her hands, gummy with resin and smelling of pine, and smears strands of sap onto her leggings.

Now that they're engaged—becoming a family, Shaw says—he's insisting on a holly jolly holiday, wanting to create new traditions with bells and bows and mistletoe. Lacey is still getting used to the idea of being in love and part of "a family," whatever that means. The concept of a happy Christmas is completely overwhelming, but it's hard to admit those fears, even to her fiancé.

For years after Momma died, it was only Lacey, her father, and his best pal—cheap booze. Then alcohol poisoning stole Daddy from her, too, and there was no one to keep her company during the frigid, snowy Maine Christmases. A few times Ruby had asked her over for Jell-O shots in her room at Granny's Bed & Breakfast, but Lacey declined so often that even those slapdash invites stopped coming. Other than keeping her father's tradition of drinking herself into oblivion on Christmas Eve, she preferred to sit at home and pretend Christmas didn't exist at all. As the years passed, the holiday season came to mean little more to her than a few extra bucks in tips at the nail salon and $5 peppermint mochas at Sleepy's Coffee Bar.

Lacey shakes off the doldrums and forces a smile. She's not alone anymore.

Gold flashes a toothy grin and hefts the nine-foot evergreen onto the roof of the sedan. Her heart flip-flops and to mask her childish delight, she balls her hands into fists and shoves them in her coat pockets. Whistling "Jingle Bells," he wraps a length of red string around the tree trunk, then weaves it around the grab handles inside the car doors with remarkable dexterity.

"Do we need such a mammoth tree?" she wonders aloud. "For just the two of us?"

"This is a Frasier Fir. The Cadillac of trees."

Apparently that settles the matter. She's gone from nothing to a Cadillac in no time at all.

"Can't we, you know, have it delivered?" She gestures at the volunteers manning the tree lot. They are milling around a trash can fire and sipping steaming liquid out of paper cups. _Probably vodka-spiked tea,_ she thought. _Maybe that's how they make it through the season. I'll need it to survive this tree-decorating session._

"Where's your spirit of adventure, lass?" Shaw seems undeterred by her sour mood, now humming "Joy to the World" as he ushers her into the car and pulls out of the tree lot onto the slushy streets.

Lacey eyes him askance and shifts on the leather seat of his _actual_ Cadillac. Christmas trees, sugar cookies, brightly wrapped presents…she'd left all of those holiday trappings behind long ago.

"Oh, it's adventure you want, is it, Gold?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Let's get out of here, then. Whaddaya say to Christmas in Vegas?"

Gold pulls up to a garland-wrapped stoplight and waves to Sherriff Swan who's cruising up Main Street in her patrol car. Lacey grits her teeth at the friendly smiles that pass between them. Screw good will toward men—she despises that woman.

"Las Vegas? No, thank you." He points back toward the tree lot where Leroy and his friends are still clowning around instead of working. "If I wanted to see a Christmastime Elvis impersonator, I would head down to the Rabbit Hole to watch Leroy slip into his cups."

"True." Her bright idea blown to bits, Lacey grimaces, but her ire thaws at the look on his face. The angular planes are softened by a lopsided grin, reminding her of an overgrown puppy. He's as earnest and excited as a child awaiting Santa's arrival, his chocolate eyes sparkling with merriment. How could she be grouchy with him for even a moment?

Her heart tightens in her chest, constricting with the force of her feelings. She loves him so much it terrifies her. She gasps softly as the pang of sentiment climbs into her throat.

"What's wrong?" he asks, turning right when the stoplight turns green.

She loves how attuned he is to her moods, yet sometimes wishes he wasn't quite so observant. Wiping the pained look off her face, she holds out her hand for his inspection. "I have sticky stuff on my engagement ring," she complains, wriggling her fingers so the black and white diamonds glitter and sparkle in the afternoon sunshine.

"Never mind that." He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the sticky, sweet spots on her fingers, ending with a chaste but lingering kiss to her ring, the symbol of all that has grown and flourished between them. "That will come right off with a bit of soap and water. Now what's really wrong?"

"I don't…like Christmas. It never works out for me." She blows out a breath with the confession. "But I do love you. And for you, I'll try."

His smile is sympathetic and grateful. "You're so brave, lass."

Soon they pull the car into the driveway and hurry inside out of the cold. At once Shaw stokes the fire to roaring while Lacey snuggles into the quilt that had become "her" blanket soon after she officially moved in. Outside, fresh snow is falling, collecting on the windowsills in fluffy little piles. Gold delivers twin mugs of hot chocolate to the den and removes his jacket and waistcoat to begin stringing lights around the massive conifer.

His suit is still pristine, and she marvels that he not only selected and paid almost $200 for a towering tree, but then tied it to the car, drove it home, and set it up in the stand without a wrinkle or a drop of sap in sight. She smiles in spite of herself; would this man ever cease to amaze her?

Lacey settles into the sofa and dumps a healthy draught of peppermint schnapps into her mug, flattening the pouf of whipped cream adorning the top. She should help—she _wants_ to help—but she can't get the sound of breaking glass or the image of sputtering lights out of her head from the last time Daddy had careened into the tree and toppled it, blinded by liquor.

It's been too many years to count since she's decorated a Christmas tree.

"Why don't you look through those bins of ornaments?" Shaw's voice carries through the branches; he's sandwiched between the tree and the wall, connecting extension cords.

"Uh, ok." She drags herself down to the carpet and wrinkles her nose at the musty odor wafting from the crisp tissue paper. Lacey fingers a glass ball. "They're kind of old."

"Antique," he jokes. "Like me. And yes, they were my mother's. All I have left of her, really."

Lacey squeezes her eyes shut, trying to remember her own mother's voice, her scent, her laughter. But there's nothing.

Gold comes out from behind the tree and uses his cane as leverage to come down to one knee beside her. He lifts a glass teardrop shaped ornament in vibrant blue, holding it up to the light.

"Hanging ornaments is like displaying memories. Each year, you pull them out and as you trim the tree, you reminisce about happy times."

Lacey bites her lip as her eyes well up with tears. "But I don't have…"

"I know. But you will. _We will,_ " he amends, fishing behind his back. With a smile, he dangles a shiny new bauble in front of her. Eager to please him, she reaches for it, the weight of it cool and heavy in her warm palm. It's a round sterling bell, etched with a delicate ivy pattern and emblazoned with a single word: BELIEVE. When Lacey shakes it, the sphere gives a delightfully musical tinkle.

Shaw wraps his arms around her, covering her in his love. She slips her arms around his neck, holding both him and the ornament tight in her grip.

"We're going to have a wonderful Christmas, Lacey." He kisses the top of her head, then hauls her to her feet and hands her another ornament. He nods toward the tree. "Go on, lass."

Hesitant, Lacey approaches the tree, and with shaking fingers, she hangs the first ornament at eye level. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the silver ball, and though it's distorted, she realizes that she's actually smiling. With a deep breath, she gingerly hangs a second new memory.

 ** _Day 2_**

"Our tree looks spectacular in the morning light, doesn't it?"

Lacey flushes and jumps. Shaw has caught her staring at the tree again. Feigning nonchalance, she repositions one of the glass snowflake ornaments in front of a twinkling white light and steps back to strike a pseudo-critical pose. He might be on to her, but she won't go down without a fight. _Christmas? Bah! Humbug_. Scrooge's infamous epitaph rings in her ears, and she can't help but laugh at herself.

"What's funny?" Shaw comes up behind her and snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

"Nothing. It does look pretty," Lacey agrees reluctantly, sniffing peanut butter on his breath as she turns to accept his kiss. "Mmmm. You taste delicious." She pulls back and narrows her eyes. "Don't tell me we're baking Christmas cookies next."

He blinks at her. "Yes, I have several dozen varieties planned."

She pushes playfully against his chest and groans. "Do you have several dozen varieties of wine I can drink during the drudgery?"

He laughs. "I'm teasing, Lace. Although maybe we can try making one batch? The peanut butter ones with the chocolate centers are rather easy. You could wear your leather apron."

"Mmmmm. Don't tempt the temptress, Gold." She kisses him again, the intoxicating flavor of him mingling with the cookies he's been munching. "You've been sampling the ones Ruby gave us already."

"So let's make more." He nuzzles her neck, a move that usually can get Lacey to agree to his every whim.

"No. No baking today, please? Shaw, I never thought I'd say this, but can we please go to work? Don't you have some inventory for me to update at the shop?" she wheedles. "All this Christmas cheer is giving me a migraine."

He shrugs and winks. "As you wish, lass."

xoxo

Lacey drums her manicured nails impatiently on the keyboard. She'd begged to come into work, but she can't concentrate on her software update—not with Shaw stringing yet another strand of white twinkling lights in the front window.

In all the holiday seasons she'd walked past his store, she had never seen such a sight. Part of her delights at the realization that he's doing all this to please her. She's not the only person surprised, either. People are stopping on the street to gawk, mouths dropped open in surprise to see the grumpy pawnbroker – err… _antiques dealer_ hanging Christmas lights. Undeterred, Shaw waves and flashes his dimples at the rubbernecking passersby, then carries on with his duties.

Tonight at home, Lacey is going to pull back his hair for a peek at his ears to make sure he's not part elf.

"Have you always been such a fan of the holidays?" she asks when he prepares a cup of tea and stirs it with a candy cane.

"Not really, no." He looks up from polishing a set of brass candlesticks, and Lacey glances around suspiciously, looking for an Advent wreath.

She opens her mouth to ask him what's so different about this year, but customers begin trickling in to hunt down perfect gifts for the special people in their lives, and there's a steady stream of business until lunchtime.

As Lacey wraps a set of gold knot cufflinks for Mary Margaret Nolan to give to her husband, Gold disappears, muttering a vague excuse about needing to be somewhere. Lacey's stomach complains while she ties a glittery red bow on Mrs. Nolan's package. Hopefully Shaw's errands will include picking up lunch. A club sandwich with thick, peppery bacon would taste amazing right now.

"Merry Christmas, Lacey," Mary Margaret calls, swinging the bag carrying her gift.

 _Gift._

Lacey moans, unable to believe her stupidity. "Great going, Lacey," she mumbles under her breath. Maybe banging her head on the display case will knock some sense into her idiot brain.

Counting today, there are only six days until Christmas, and she doesn't have a single present for the man she loves. If they are going through with this "real Christmas" business, she needs to get him a gift that he will remember—one worthy of their first holiday together. She discards all the usual suspects—lingerie, a deluxe pedicure from her days at the salon, a Brazilian wax. No, this can't be any run-of-the-mill present. Gold can buy and sell the entire town three times over. There is nothing he needs or wants that his money could not or had not already purchased.

Judging from the tree, the decorating, and the Christmas carols he's been blasting out of every stereo, this holiday is important to him. A gift for their first Christmas together needs to be special. Something from the heart. _But what?_

Flustered, she flips the sign in the front window to "Closed" and stomps her heeled boots down the snowy street in the direction of Granny's Diner. A hearty meal and a cup of strong coffee will help her think.

She kicks the snow off her boots and skids to the counter to place a to-go order of a club sandwich and black coffee. Granny is leaning against the counter opposite the cash register, working two hooked needles through a ball of yarn in between customers. The older woman's wrinkled yet nimble fingers move deftly, the shape of a sock beginning to form as the needles work their magic. _That doesn't look too difficult,_ Lacey thinks, chewing on her bottom lip.

A flash of a long-buried memory enters her consciousness. Sundays with her mother were nothing less than perfect. Lacey would spend hours reading her newest book in the family parlour while her mother sat opposite her, crocheting exquisite doilies and linens. Whole afternoons ambled by in easy silence, a girl and her mother each indulging in her favorite hobby, completely at ease and without a single word needing to be spoken.

Memory gives way to inspiration, and Lacey forgets her lunch and growling belly and makes a beeline for the exit. She's decided on her present for Shaw: a scarf crocheted by her own hands. How hard can it be to choose a pattern and make a simple scarf? Surely she would recall a trick or a technique from those times spent with her mother. How-to videos from YouTube will fill in the gaps. While she's never done any actual stitching of her own before, she's good with her hands and a quick study.

Yes, crocheting a scarf is almost too perfect an idea, and Lacey slips and slides down the sidewalk, intent on reaching Storybrooke's lone department store to stock up on supplies.

###

Part 2 will be posted Tuesday.


	2. Days Three and Four

**_Day 3_**

"I'll take that one." Gold points at a brown and white striped furball with massive blue eyes, huddled in the corner of the crate far away from the other kittens. There are friskier kittens in the crate, jumping and playing and mewling for attention, but this one is a loner with soulful, clear eyes that wasn't here yesterday when he'd come in to the animal shelter to browse.

The cat reminds him of Lacey, and he has to have it for her this instant.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? Five months old from the breeder this morning. I wouldn't sell her to you any sooner." David Nolan grins and lifts the tiny feline out of the crate, then presents her to Gold, paws dangling in midair. "Persians have very sweet temperaments; she'll steal your heart in no time."

"The cat's not for me," Gold says, clearing his throat and searching for a place to put the kitten. He settles for tucking it into the crook of his elbow.

"Oh, no?" David prompts, a gleam in his eye and a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"It, erm, _she_ is a present." He's stammering now, unaccountably shy under Nolan's scrutiny. As the kitten scales his shoulder, sticking her tiny claws into his suit jacket, Gold feels a blush crawl up his cheeks. The bitty thing climbs into his breast pocket, then settles against his chest and yawns hugely.

"Ah, a gift for your sweetheart." David crosses his arms with a satisfied smile.

"My fiancée," Gold corrects importantly. "Lacey and I are getting married."

"Hey, congratulations!" David claps him on the back. "Really happy for you, man. Sparks were certainly flying when I drove you two back to your house last month for the, ah, community service project, was it?"

Gold looks and Nolan squarely and nods. He's not the least bit ashamed of what he did to make Lacey his.

"Hopefully Lacey's more of a cat person than she is a dog person." David chuckles. "As I recall, she wasn't Lucky's biggest fan."

Gold smiles at the memory of the soaked golden retriever parking himself in Lacey's lap when David brought them from the hospital to his house, after Lacey rammed his Cadillac into her apartment building.

A warm, wet sensation spreads along his chest, startling him, and he extricates the drowsy furball from his breast pocket. The dratted cat has peed on his pocket square.

Pursing his lips in annoyance, he wonders what possessed him to adopt an animal. Perhaps he should have taken Lacey on a cruise instead. "Here." He holds the miscreant by the scruff of its neck, shifting it toward David. "I'll come back for it Christmas Eve." _Or never._

Nolan laughs and throws up his hands. "Sorry, Gold. You have to take her today."

"And why's that?" he asks wryly.

Nolan nods toward the crates and cages that line the walls. "Most of these guys are going home with good Storybrooke families today—into loving home like yours." Nolan smiles. "The rest will be transferred to a shelter in Portland. The shelter will be empty for the next couple of weeks so Mary Margaret and I can travel for Christmas."

"Very well." Left with no other choice, Gold sighs and deposits the kitten into a shoebox lined with a soft towel, then throws the pee-stained pocket square inside for good measure. "You can keep this," he tells the kitten.

On the drive home, he wracks his brain for the best spot in the house to keep their furry friend hidden until Christmas, but the feline is crying and mewling pathetically from inside the box and he can't concentrate. In the back of his mind, he recalls reading that cats hate car rides.

Usually he thinks his plans through thoroughly, preparing for every eventuality and possibility, but he's feeling spontaneous this holiday season. Being in love has surely addled his brain.

He pulls into the driveway and carefully carries the quivering box toward the house. As he reaches the porch, a stiff wind blows the top off the shoebox. Dismayed, he watches the lid sail away and skid into the neighbor's yard. Hastening to unlock the door and get both he and the cat out of the poor weather, he hits a solid patch of ice. The hilt of his cane slips on the ice-slicked porch, and he drops the box into the open doorway. The kitten spills out with a cry and makes a break for the den.

 _Wonderful._ Gold mumbles curses as he stoops to pick up the useless shoebox and towel. Limping over the threshold, he whistles for the kitten— _an exercise in futility if ever there was one._ He plops into a chair in the foyer and rubs at his ankle, the strain from the almost fall already a dull ache. After he tracks down their houseguest, he's going to fire the plowing company. What is he paying them for, if not to shovel and salt their driveway and front walk in a timely fashion? Irritated, Gold cracks his knuckles; if Lacey had tripped and fallen on those towering heels she wears, there'd have been hell to pay.

He creeps throughout the house, whistling and calling for the kitten, but she's nowhere to be found. After forty-five minutes of searching, he grabs his coat and cane to leave. He needs to get back to the pawnshop before Lacey becomes suspicious of his extended lunch.

At least Nolan had given him a can of kitten food so the little ingrate doesn't starve. He pops the can open and then sets it in the middle of the kitchen floor, hoping to attract her into the open.

No such luck. Gold buttons his coat, takes one last turn around the den, and heads for the front door.

If the little rascal isn't coming out to eat, maybe she'll stay hidden from Lacey until Christmas morning.

Well, a man could hope, right?

xoxo

Gold drains the last of his brandy from the heavy crystal glass, enjoying the warmth of the amber liquid as it coats his throat. Resting in his armchair by the fire facing the tree, he looks toward Lacey. She's stretched out on the couch in a silk bathrobe, lounging with her laptop, her bright blue eyes intent on the screen. Her lithe form moves gracefully as she adjusts position, and heat rises in his chest, love and desire mingling in a heady feeling of contentment.

He rises and stands in front of Lacey and her computer, waiting to be noticed. Lacey has her headphones in and seems completely absorbed by the screen, so he waves to catch her attention. She pulls one earbud out and lowers the screen, angling it toward her.

"Time for bed, lass," Gold says huskily, holding out a hand to help his lady to her feet.

"I'm not tired. Why don't you go on without me? I want to finish this…this…movie," Lacey stammers.

Gold furrows his brow slightly; Lacey is normally quite eager to join him in bed and since she moved in, they always retire together.

"Um, all right." He lets his hand fall and turns toward the staircase, confused. He doesn't want to push, but he has to ask: "Is everything okay, Lacey?"

She eyes him quizzically. "Yes, of course. I'll be up in a bit." Lacey turns back to her screen and pops the earbud back in. As Shaw turns to leave, he glances back to see Lacey smiling at the bright screen.

In bed that night, he tosses and turns, and an ugly thought crosses his mind: What if she's talking to another man? Jealousy pierces his heart, and the temptation to thump downstairs and haul her into bed is strong. No, Lacey doesn't respond to highhandedness. He'll just leave her alone and wait for her to come to her senses.

He's heard the sordid stories of cheating spouses and "sexting," of Ashley Madison and Tinder, but certainly the love he shares with Lacey is impervious to those temptations. Since their engagement, he hasn't had one single doubt about her attraction to him–no, the two of them fit together too well, they were meant to be.

Weren't they?

 ** _Day 4_**

Gold pads around the den, whistling for the dratted kitten while Lacey is upstairs in the shower. The can of food he left out yesterday had been licked clean, but she hasn't made an appearance since she ran under the sofa yesterday afternoon when he brought her home. Annoyed, he cracks eggs into a bowl and murders them with a fork.

A soft mewling noise sounds behind him and he turns around.

The kitten patters toward the sink and rubs against his ankle, purring loudly. She's carrying a strand of dark green yarn in her mouth which she deposits in front of the sink like an offering. But before he can grab her, she sprints away again. Gold sniffs and glares in the direction she ran, then tosses the scrap of thread in the trash. You would think he is some kind of axe murderer, rather than the one feeding and providing the scrawny beast with shelter.

And cats are supposed to be intelligent animals?

Even so, he's concerned about the kitten getting enough nutrients until he can corral her, so he sets a shallow cup of milk in the darkest back corner of the enormous kitchen, hoping to coax her out of hiding before Lacey comes downstairs. On the floor of the pantry, he lays out a handful of kitten chow and pulls out bread and honey for Lacey's breakfast, praying that she won't find a reason to go in there.

Perhaps she won't notice the milk, either.

"What's that?" Lacey stops in the kitchen doorway and gestures at the kitten's bowl from across the room.

"What?" He gives her a practiced blank look.

"The bowl."

"It's nothing."

She crosses the room and peers into the blue bowl, touching a finger to the liquid. "This is milk."

"I was thirsty."

"You're drinking out of bowls now? Is that some kind of weird Gold family holiday tradition?"

"Leftover from my cereal this morning," he amends.

"That doesn't make any sense."

He tries for his most impressive scowl, but it falls flat. Lacey lays a cool hand on his forehead and he smiles thinly.

"I think you've been hitting the eggnog too hard," she declares.

" _Someone_ keeps mixing whisky into it when she thinks I'm not looking."

"Well, I have to keep you living on the edge." She smooths his hair back, making his scalp tingle. "Although, you've been doing a decent job of that yourself lately. What's on tap for today? Have you signed on to be the department store Santa?"

He huffs, pretending to be indignant. "Impossible. Everyone knows that Saint Nicholas has blue eyes."

"Very smooth, Gold. But you're not going to distract me." She puts her hands on her hips. "What's with the milk?"

"Oh! Would you look at that?" He makes a show of pulling out his pocket watch and snapping it open. "Come along, I made you a breakfast sandwich to go. We open in fifteen minutes. Holiday hours, you know."

He kisses her nose, then thrusts the egg sandwich into her hand, propelling her toward the front door.

xoxo

At the shop, Lacey is strung tighter than a skein of yarn, her nerves taut from stewing over the wretched scarf.

The salesgirl had helped her choose a distinguished-looking yarn, perfect for Shaw—Bernat Satin in Forest Mist Heather. Even the name of the material sounds elegant and refined, worthy of being wrapped around the neck of a man as fastidious as Shaw Gold.

She replays the YouTube instructional video again, glaring at the screen as the instructor blabs on about chain stitches. Chain stitching? Chain smoking is more her thing. She looks longingly at the side door toward the alley, dying for a cigarette. But she'd quit smoking weeks ago, and most of the time she doesn't miss it.

Unless she's stressed out. Like today.

She thought she'd done everything right—followed the pattern, kept proper tension, and used the correct stitch for a simple, basic design—but the stupid scarf had somehow unraveled. When she stumbled downstairs for her morning coffee, the remains were sitting in a tangled mass on the kitchen floor. She'd polished off a large bottle of Cabernet while crocheting and evidently had dragged the project into the kitchen and dropped it on her way upstairs to find her pillow. Either that, or evil Christmas elves were stalking them. She cursed under her breath and gathered up the pile of yarn. All that late night work for no results, and only three days until Christmas morning.

All that, plus at some point between last night and this morning, one of them had wrapped the bottom of the Christmas tree trunk in tin foil. She's been meaning to ask Shaw about it, but she is too embarrassed. What if it had been her? It wouldn't be the first time she'd imbibed too freely and couldn't remember the events of the previous evening.

Lacey rubs eyes bleary from too little sleep, and tries to focus on the computer screen, but the whir of the spinning wheel is distracting. She turns around to watch Shaw work—his hands strong and sure and sexy, the wheel obeying his every command.

 _This is hardly fair_. There he sits, expertly working this ancient, complex contraption with finesse and grace, while she can't even crochet a simple scarf.

He doesn't look up from spinning as he says, "Have you quit for the day, sweet?"

Shaw caresses the wheel like a lover, fingers splayed over the smooth wood, and a tension that has nothing to do with needlework rises in her belly.

Still focused on the whirling spokes, he smiles crookedly, stealing her breath.

"How do you do that?" Mesmerized by his hands, she begins to imagine them touching her body the way they're touching the wheel. "Spin and still focus on what's happening around you?"

"Training. And many years of practice. You could do it, if you were so inclined," he says, still not looking at her. "You're capable of anything you set your mind to, Lacey."

 _Not everything,_ she wants to say, thinking of the ruined scarf. But his confidence in her abilities touches her spirit, making him even more desirable. A lock of soft salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead, and her mouth goes dry.

Oh, she's inclined toward something, all right, but it's not spinning.

Running her tongue over her teeth, she saunters toward him, drops a pen on the floor, and bends at the waist to retrieve it, flipping her hair back so her scent wafts toward her target. The move offers him a perfect view of her rear end in her favorite tight leather miniskirt.

Behind her, Lacey hears the wheel stop twirling. She turns toward Gold with a smirk, closing the distance between them. "Do I have your full attention?"

"Indeed," he croaks as she settles in his lap, his throat working and his eyes dark with desire.

"Good." Lacey flattens her palms against his chest, pleased by the rapid thud of his heart. "Take off your pants."

###

Part 3 will be posted Wednesday.


	3. Day Five

_**Day 5**_

Needlework is not for Lacey French. No, as soon as she finishes this interminable scarf, her days of crocheting are over. For as long as she lives, she's never attempting another handmade project.

Once again, the scarf came partially unraveled during the night, and what's even stranger is that it somehow migrated overnight from its hiding place under the bed in her room to the floor of the guest bathroom.

Maybe Shaw is playing a trick on her? Either that, or she's losing her mind.

At this point, the yarn has been dragged all over the house and it will probably be too filthy for Shaw to consider wearing with his classy overcoats. She can see him now: opening her gift, giving her a tight, polite smile and a clipped thank you, then shoving her creation into the bowels of the hallway closet—never to be seen again.

But she's determined to finish it, no matter what. Tonight she's sleeping with the damn thing under her pillow so it can't go on any late night travels. Perhaps the Crochet Fairy will visit and lend her a helping hand.

Fortunately, she can work on it throughout the day while she mans the shop. Gold is out collecting rent payments and won't be home till evening. This chance couldn't have come at a better time. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and both hours and miracles are in short supply.

Meanwhile, she tries not to let the customers feel like they're badgering her, even though she wants to lock the door and flip the shop sign to Closed.

 _Look at them out there._ She twists her mouth at the sight of the busy, bustling streets. People are calling out greetings to each other and carrying enormous shopping bags overflowing with wrapped packages. The entire town is running around like they've eaten too many candy canes—strung out on sugar and holiday cheer.

Lacey looks down at the half-finished scarf in disgust; if she didn't love Shaw so much, she'd douse the thing in whisky and watch it explode in the fireplace.

The bell above the entrance rings, announcing a visitor. Lacey shoves the scarf and crochet hook under her chair and pivots toward the door with what she hopes is a welcoming smile. Her experience at the nail salon taught her the value of customer service—nice girls get bigger tips. However, the pawnshop is successful because it offers treasures available nowhere else in town, not because she or Gold are social butterflies. The pleasantries fade as soon as she identifies the customer—Emma Swan.

 _What the hell is she doing here_?

"How can I help you, officer?" Lacey arches her back like a cat, immediately defensive.

"Hello, Miss French."

Lacey ignores the greeting and nods toward the sparkling display cases. "Looking for a gift? Mother, brother, father...boyfriend?"

Emma glances out the shop window as Regina Mills struts by in a skin-tight car coat, and a faint blush paints the officer's creamy complexion as she watches the mayor.

"Ah, maybe your girlfriend?" Lacey taunts, thrilled to have discovered a chink in the cop's armor.

"No. No, I'm not dating anyone," Emma says, looking at the floor.

"Pity."

A long, uncomfortable silence fills the store.

"So what brings you into _our_ shop, if you're not going to buy anything?" Lacey sounds possessive, she knows, but that's too damn bad. Emma Swan should learn to keep her distance from Lacey or anything that belongs to her…especially her fiancé.

"Just looking for Shaw"—the sheriff's pupils dilate as if realizing her mistake and she backpedals when Lacey takes a step forward. "I mean, uh, Mr. Gold. Is he here?"

"No."

"Well would you tell him I came by, please?"

"Is he under arrest?" The sheriff's patient, even tone is making Lacey crazy.

Emma's eyes widen and she sneezes once, twice, three times. "Of course not."

"Then I'm sure I can help you with whatever it is you could possibly need." Lacey digs her nails into her palms in an effort to keep her composure. She doesn't want this woman anywhere near her Shaw.

"I'm afraid this business is between me and Mr. Gold." Emma smiles sheepishly.

The sheriff seems sincere, but Lacey doesn't trust her.

"You're not his type," she says, her voice as steely as her nerves.

"Excuse me?"

"Gold." She looks Emma over like there's something wrong with her, wanting her to feel as small and stupid as she feels right now. "He doesn't care for blondes."

"Is that what you think?" Emma sputters. "That I'm-I'm after your fiancé?"

"Aren't you?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth." Emma holds up her hands, a gesture of surrender, and pulls out a small pad of paper. "Look, I'm sorry for bothering you. Just tell him I came by, all right?" She scribbles her phone number and rips it off the pad, handing it to Lacey.

Emma sneezes three more times in succession and heads out into the cold.

Lacey waits until the biting wind slams the door behind Emma before crumpling the paper in her clenched fist. She hurls the phone number into the trash with all her might.

She flops into her chair in a huff, and returns to crocheting. Her whole body is shaking with fury, and when she squints into the light to survey her work, the stitches are too big. She has to frog three entire rows. She rips them out fiercely, muttering angry nonsense to the empty shop.

The bell over the door rings again.

"What. Now?" Lacey shoves her ball of yarn behind her back and glares toward the front.

"Only me, Lace." Ruby says, brushing snow off her long, raven locks. Her heavily lined eyes narrow in suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"I would believe you, but there's a string on your skirt…attached to a ball of yarn." Ruby covers her mouth with her hand, failing to stifle a giggle.

It must look strange to Ruby, the sight of her former drinking buddy trying her hand at something so domestic. Last year, the pair of them closed down the Rabbit Hole on Christmas Eve, both of them stumbling home while singing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" at the top of their lungs.

"Fine." Lacey chews her thumbnail and pulls the yarn out from behind her back. "I might be crocheting a scarf for Gold's Christmas present."

"No kidding." Ruby whistles in appreciation.

"Why so surprised? I am _marrying_ the guy."

"Yeah, but I thought you were hitching your wagon to that gelding for the money," Ruby drawls, leaning against the display case.

"He's a stallion." She pins Ruby with a punishing stare. "And no."

"Wow."

"Now what?" Lacey wants to get back to her project. She was in a rhythm, and now Emma Swan and Ruby have spoiled it. Between the spontaneous unraveling, the sneaking around, and the constant interruptions, she _might_ have a shot at finishing Shaw's scarf by his birthday in mid-June.

"You really do love him, don't you? You're, like, in this for keeps." Ruby doesn't even try to mask her surprise, evident in her widened eyes.

"Shut up."

"So," Ruby eyes the pile of yarn in Lacey's lap, "having trouble with your knitting?"

"It's crochet," Lacey snaps.

" _Oh, it's crochet,"_ Ruby mimics, rolling her eyes. "Who the hell died and made you Martha Stewart?"

Lacey sighs; it's not Ruby's fault she sucks at crafting. "Sorry. These stupid chain stitches keep coming unraveled and the damn thing is all wonky looking."

"Why don't you just dazzle Gold with something store-bought and paid for with his credit card?"

The implication that she's a kept woman crawls beneath her skin. "I make my own money and have my own areas of responsibility. He can't even _find_ the computer without me."

She winces, hating herself for selling Shaw out. It's wrong to expose his very few, very minor weak points, but damn it— Ruby knows exactly which buttons to push to piss her off.

"Oh really? Sounds like he's the one calling all the shots."

"Jealous?" Lacey snorts. She's secure in Shaw's motivations for employing her, and she loves the fact that they work at the shop together.

"Maybe I am." Ruby concedes with a nod and a smile. "Hey! Why don't you have Granny help you? She's an old pro at needlework."

Lacey can't deny that the idea has appeal. It would be so easy to coax Granny Lucas to crochet the scarf for her, tearing out all her mistakes and presenting Gold with a gift as perfect as he is.

"Nope. That's cheating." Lacey shakes her head. "I want to do this myself."

"Suit yourself." Ruby backs out the door and calls out over her shoulder: "Text me if you change your mind."

xoxo

After dinner, Gold heads upstairs to change. It's been a long day of haggling with renters and he's tired. In an uncharacteristically unselfish move, he forgave several partial payments and even allowed a few tenants to defer to the new year. Recalling their relieved expressions, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Being in love at Christmastime agrees with him.

He opens the closet door to hang up his suit and tie, when the glitter of two little eyeballs catches his attention. The kitten is lounging in his dry cleaning basket, stretched out on top of his favorite pinstripe and chewing on a small plush bear wearing a grey and red winter hat.

Her ears perk up when she sees him, and he swears she's grinning. _Women._

"So there you are," he says, swiping the ravaged decoration and wagging a finger at her. "Don't urinate or eat any more of my things."

Feeling foolish for talking to a kitten, he clucks his tongue at himself; it's not as though she can understand his orders.

The cat's unexpected presence in the closet gives him an idea, though, and he's thankful that Lacey's belongings still occupy the finest guest bedroom. Once they marry, how will this closet even hold all her shoes, much less her clothing and his?

"Only two more days of keeping up this charade," he whispers to himself.

To his surprise, Lacey hadn't said anything about the layers of tinfoil he wrapped around the base of the tree to discourage the kitten from climbing the trunk. At least the puss had enough sense not to rip apart the Christmas tree.

While Lacey washes the supper dishes, Gold sneaks the food and water bowls and the litter box out of the pantry. Sneaking around and lying to his sweetheart makes him feel guilty, even for a good cause. He takes all the kitten supplies upstairs, putting them all in the closet along with the kitten's shoebox.

"Stay," he says, then taps the litter box with his foot. "And do your business in here, beastie, not on my Armani."

When he comes back downstairs, Lacey is curled up on the loveseat, staring intently at her phone and flicking her fingers across the screen in quick, agitated strokes.

Yesterday it was the laptop and now it's the dreaded iPhone. His ancient flip phone is more than enough technology for his tastes. Can't they have an electronic-free Christmas? The trouble with living in a 140-character world, Gold muses, is that people seem more interested in posting about each other than spending time together.

"What are you looking at on that thing?" he asks, side-eying the phone.

"What are you doing hanging around with Sheriff Swan?" she counters, twisting her lips. "She came to see you today."

"Oh, did she?" He studies his fingernails, his expression carefully blank. "I'm sure it was nothing."

"Yeah, ok." Her voice drips with sarcasm and she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.

He looks at her helplessly; what is he supposed to do? Admit that he'd sought out Emma and begged her to keep the kitten for a couple of days so he could surprise his future wife? Unfortunately, the sheriff is allergic to cats, but it had been worth a try. Now, thanks to his poor planning, Lacey's jealous streak is rearing its ugly head. Much as her devotion thrills him, he doesn't want to compound this misunderstanding any further.

"You know, I'm not some stupid kid who works at your shop and lives in your home." She narrows her eyes. "I can tell when you're hiding something from me."

" _Our_ shop and _our_ home," he says. "Say I am hiding something—hypothetically speaking. Maybe it's not what you think." He winks, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Maybe it's exactly what I think," Lacey snaps.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lass, why don't you come to bed? You've been up late several nights in a row. You're not getting enough rest."

"Right. Sorry _Dad."_

 _"_ I don't know why you're pitching a fit with me, you're…you're the one who's been glued to a screen every night this week! What are you doing, exactly?"

Lacey jerks back as if she's been slapped, and Gold instantly regrets the accusation. It's rather hypocritical of him to grill her when he knows full well he's keeping a secret of his own.

"You know what?" She tosses the mobile phone down on the couch. "You can sleep on your side of the bed tonight. Don't even think about crossing the median. Actually, screw that: I'm sleeping in my own room tonight. It is still _my_ room, right?"

"The twenty pairs of over-the-knee boots prove it!" he thunders, his patience snapping.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Glaring, she pushes off the couch and stomps toward the stairs. Rapping his cane against the floor, he follows, hot on her heels. Jockeying for position, they clomp up the staircase like a herd of elephants, elbowing each other all the way up to the landing.

"Lacey, wait." He grabs her arm; going to bed angry on the eve of Christmas Eve isn't the way to head into the holiday.

"For what?" She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her bare foot.

"The only relationship between Emma Swan and me is a professional one—she's the sheriff and I'm a citizen."

"I believe you," she says, dropping her stiff posture and softening her voice.

"You do?" He can't believe she's backing down this easily.

"Yeah." She shuffles her feet. "Look, I know you would never wrong me. I just need some space tonight, okay?"

He nods, stung by the rejection but accepting her desire for independence. "Yes, of course. If that's what you want."

"Good night, Shaw." She moves down the hall to the guest room.

"Good night, lass."

Once he settles into bed, he hears a soft mewing and scratching at the closet door. On the bright side, at least sleeping separately from Lacey will make hiding the cat easier. But he doesn't want to make this a habit.

He opens the closet, scoops up the kitten, and drops her into her cozy shoe box. "Come on," he says, climbing back into bed and depositing the box on Lacey's side of the mattress. "You can keep me company tonight."

The kitten crawls out of the box and climbs on top of him, settling against his heart. Gold peels one eye open; she's staring intently at his face, her tiny ears forward and alert. "All right. You can use me as a pillow. But just for tonight."

Bringing a tentative hand to the kitten's tiny back, he strokes her fur until he falls asleep.

###

Up Next: The conclusion of Seven Days of Christmas


	4. Days Six and Seven

_A/N: We've come to the end of our holiday tale! I hope you've had fun! We have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day here, so this is by far the longest chapter._

 _I wish you a happy and safe Holiday Season and a 2017 with every good blessing._

 ** _Day 6 – Christmas Eve_**

Lacey's alarm buzzes and she groans when her phone slips off the bed and onto the floor, its incessant beeping pestering her to get up.

She forgot to close the blinds last night, and morning sun has stolen across the windowpanes, setting the entire room alight. Reluctant to rise, she sits up in bed to stretch, propping up a pillow to lean back against the headboard, and looks out the window.

Outside, frosty webs have formed on the glass. The lake is frozen over and the trees are white, the land blanketed with freshly fallen snow. She looks out over the lake, wishing that her feet could become wings and she could fly out over it, breathing cold, clear air into her starved lungs. Fear pricks at her, as she remembers her evening obligations.

Tonight is Christmas Eve, and she promised Shaw she would accompany him to a service at the convent.

She hasn't darkened the door of a church since Momma died, but Shaw pointed out that since the festivities are outside, she's not _really_ going to church.

At least Shaw's scarf is mostly intact and exactly where she left it—tucked into bed next to her.

After they'd gone into their separate bedrooms, Lacey sneaked back downstairs to grab the scarf and supplies, then sat up in bed crocheting until her eyes drooped. When she was too tired to see the stitches, she shoved the crochet hook and the nearly finished scarf under her pillow and went to sleep.

She showers and slips into a navy dress with a scooped back that she knows makes her eyes sparkle like sapphires. Barefoot, she creeps downstairs to find Shaw hanging stockings by the fireplace. Feeling uncertain after last night's argument, she clasps her hands behind her back and hovers in the archway between the foyer and the den, watching him fiddle with the white fur trim at the top of each oversized sock.

"Hey."

Shaw turns around with a tentative smile. "Hey. Did you sleep well?"

"Not really," she ventures, looking at the Christmas tree then back at him. "I hate sleeping without you."

"Me too, lass."

An unspoken apology hangs between them, and they share a smile of understanding, sweeping away the hurt of last night's harsh words.

He clears his throat and gestures toward the stockings he'd been arranging. "I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty, that is to say….I had these lying around." He trails off, a blush creeping up from his collar.

Lacey approaches the mantle and touches the soft fabric of the stockings with her fingertips. They're matching and monogrammed, cream-colored wool with red embroidery bearing their names: one for Lacey, and one for Shaw.

"You made these."

He nods, confirming her suspicion, and she shakes her head in amazement at everything he's done to make this Christmas season special.

"You hate them," he says, turning away to hide his disappointment. "Right."

He moves to snatch her stocking off the hook, but she stops him, squeezing his hand affectionately. "Don't. Please. I-I love them. I'm sorry I didn't say so sooner." She bites her lip and grins. "You have a way of overwhelming a girl."

He laughs and draws her into his arms, brushing his nose against hers. "Welcome to our life together—every moment of every day."

xoxo

They work late on Christmas Eve, staying open to help people shop for last-minute presents, and Lacey bounces between her post at the computer, the front of the shop, and the workroom—wherever she's needed.

While Shaw is running errands, Lacey steals moments here and there to work on the scarf, making a fringe border. The scarf is slightly lopsided in length and too wide in parts, but the pattern is decent, and it's almost done. She's not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry when she measures this clownish length of dilapidated yarn against the gorgeous stockings Shaw made for the mantle, but she tells herself it's the thought that counts.

He returns from delivering an antique clock to an older customer across town, and while he shakes snow off his boots, Lacey shoves the scarf in a plastic bag and pretends to touch up her glittery red nail polish. Wrapping will need to wait until later.

Now it's time to go to the convent for the Christmas Eve service, and the brave façade she's been wearing all day slips a little. They haven't really gone public with their engagement, and most of the people at the service won't know they are a couple.

"Ready to go sing some carols?" The smile he flashes is as bright and white as the flurries outside, lending her courage.

"Why not?" she says good-naturedly, pushing past her nerves and slipping her gloved hand into his.

xoxo

Gold loathes the convent—mostly because of his lengthy, unpleasant history with Mother Superior— but he's looking forward to the service. Most importantly, he believes tonight's celebration will be good for Lacey. He's hopeful that a time of prayer and song will help her through some of the pain she feels this time of year.

On the grounds of the convent, men, women, and youngsters congregate in a large circle, a live nativity scene complete with sheep, cows, and a camel at the centerpiece of the candlelight vigil.

Shaw huddles close to Lacey, touching the flame of his candle to the wick of hers. From the first spark, the flame travels around the circle until every candle is lit and each face in the circle is flooded with an ethereal glow.

The nuns lift their voices, reminiscent of the angels they sing about, and their praises float into the cold, clear sky, rising to the heavens. They sing a song in memoriam of the family members and friends who have gone before, mourning the empty places at holiday tables, acknowledging the gifts that won't be under the tree.

 _This is how I see you  
In the snow on Christmas morning  
Love and happiness surround you  
As you throw your arms up to the sky  
I keep this moment by and by_

In the candlelight, Shaw watches tears slide down Lacey's cheeks, and he wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind, protecting her from heartache. "Are you thinking of Christmas Past?" he whispers against her ear. He knows that Lacey longs for her parents, especially her mother.

She looks at him and nods, her eyes shining with tears and reflected light. She rests her head on his shoulder. "Yeah, I am, but Christmas Present isn't so bad. You're good at chasing ghosts away."

His heart as light as the flurries of snow that drift in the night, Gold cups Lacey's cold cheeks in his warm palms, and kisses his sweetheart under the brilliant stars of a clear sky. She tastes like peppermint and teardrops, and he groans into her mouth, angling his head for a deeper kiss. He opens his overcoat and draws her inside, running his hands along her curves while his mouth maps her soft skin. His lips trail over every goose bump from her mouth to her neck, and he slides his fingers inside her coat, peeling back the fur so he can suckle her jumping pulse point. Lacey's quiet moans and breathy sighs urge him to continue until someone clears their throat.

Gold looks up, hazy with desire, into the amused gaze of Sheriff Swan. Lacey stiffens in his arms as she recognizes that they aren't alone.

"Might want to go home and continue that in front of the fire," Emma says with a smile. "You wouldn't want to give the nuns a show."

Gold nods. "Lacey and I were just heading out."

"Merry Christmas to you both," she says. "It's good to see you so happy. I hope you get everything you want this year."

"I already have," Gold says, looking at Lacey.

"Me too," Lacey says, then adds, "Merry Christmas."

Gold squeezes her hand hard, proud of her for showing kindness to someone she doesn't care for, especially Emma, who's going to be alone this Christmas.

Gold pulls Lacey tighter against his side as he escorts her to the car, grateful that neither one of them has to be alone ever again.

At home, he presents Lacey with a set of cozy red plaid pajamas that coordinate with his. He worries she'll find the gesture ridiculous, but she puts them on with a smile.

They watch _A Wonderful Life_ , sip wine, and eat apple strudel in front of the fire, laughing and kissing until the wee hours of the morning. Finally they succumb to happy exhaustion on the couch by the light of the Christmas tree, the strains of a holiday melody swelling in the background.

Lacey is cuddled against his side, snoring quietly, and as he drifts to sleep, he thinks of tomorrow— Christmas Day—trying to imagine the look on Lacey's face when he gives her the kitten. Will she be surprised? Or has she figured out his secret?

He dreams he hears a soft mewling, and awakens in confusion. He stares into the darkness, listening intently for the patter of little paws. But that can't be right: he left the beastie safely ensconced in his bedroom closet. Pressing a kiss to the top of Lacey's head, he nods off once more, and dreams of Christmas Future with his lass.

 ** _Day 7 – Christmas Day_**

On Christmas morning Gold rises with the dawn. He extricates himself from Lacey's embrace, gently moving her limbs so he doesn't wake her, and heads to the kitchen.

He preheats the oven, brews coffee for Lacey, and slices oranges for breakfast. While sitting at the kitchen table sipping his morning tea, he gazes into skies painted faded red, planning how he will give Lacey her surprise. Finally, he decides to wake Lacey up by plopping the kitten on her chest, but when he goes into the master bedroom walk-in to retrieve the beastie, she's gone. Naturally, the food and water bowl are empty.

That little sneak could turn anyone into a Grinch.

Grumbling under his breath, he tiptoes through every room of the house searching, but as usual the damn cat is nowhere to be found.

"I'm taking you back to the shelter the moment Nolan gets home," he mutters under his breath. It's an empty threat, but it gives him a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

xoxo

Lacey wakes up flat on her back on the couch, missing the warmth of Shaw's body next to hers despite the merry crackle of the fire. Scents of pine, sugar, and citrus perfume the air, and the day carries an unexpected weight of excitement and expectation. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth; Shaw's indomitable Christmas spirit must be rubbing off on her.

She hears Shaw rustling around in the kitchen and springs into action—she needs to finish his present. Lacey creeps into the mudroom, looking for the plastic bag she smuggled the scarf home in. All she needs to do is snug up the ends, stick it in a box, and wrap it up. The bag is sitting in the corner of the room, holding the last of the yarn and the crochet hook, but the scarf has vanished again.

With a cry of dismay, Lacey ransacks the small room, upending baskets of soiled and clean laundry and opening cupboards. When that fails, she retraces her steps from the car into the house, but the scarf is nowhere to be found. She twists her fingers together and bites back a sob.

How could this have happened? After waking up feeling hopeful about the holiday for the first time in years, the day has quickly disintegrated into just another crappy Christmas.

Holding her crochet supplies and the now-empty plastic bag, she wanders into the kitchen to explain herself, tears of shame and disappointment coursing down her cheeks.

"Lacey, Merry…" Shaw's smile vanishes when he sees the look on her face. "Lass, what is it?"

She slaps the crochet hook into his open palm, along with the remains of the yarn. "Look at this! Look at the yarn barf!" she cries.

"I don't understand," he says, looking down at the collection of knotting thread spilling over his fingers. It dawns on him that this is the same yarn that the kitten was carrying around in her mouth the other morning. He's missing something, but he doesn't quite know what.

"See?" Lacey continues, dissolving into sobs. She wipes her runny nose on the sleeve of her festive pajamas. "This is why I don't do Christmas. There's so much pressure for everything to be perfect…and all I did was make myself crazy trying to make you something you'd never forget. That's why I was online all week. I was trying to learn to crochet."

"What did you make me?" he asks, smiling.

His delighted grin only makes her feel worse.

"A scarf. And don't be nice to me," she says on a hiccup. "Because I failed. I can't…I can't offer you anything you don't already have. "

"That's true," he says, as sure as the sunrise. "You can't."

She slumps in defeat, the confirmation that he doesn't need anything from her searing her soul and wrenching sobs from her body.

He drops the yarn and takes her hands. "Lacey, listen to me: I have you. You are everything I want, lass. I don't need another present. You're it. The most special gift—the treasure of a lifetime. All I want is to spend the rest of our lives making you happy. I love you, Lacey."

"I love you, too," she whispers, throwing her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry, Shaw," He soothes her with small, sweet caresses as she tries to stop crying, rubbing her back in comforting circles and crooning in her ear.

"Shhh, it's all right. There is nothing to forgive. If anything, it's I who owes you an apology." He wipes tears from her face with his thumbs. "I had a present for you, too. But I lost it."

"Really?" she asks. His expression is crestfallen, but she can't help but feel relieved that she's not the only one who made a mistake.

"Aye, I've been hiding it all week, and it's been far more challenging than I ever expected." He hangs his head. "Then I accused you of sneaking around when in truth I was doing the exact same thing."

"Will you tell me what the gift was?" she asks hopefully.

A soft meow startles her, and Lacey whips her head around. A little white and brown striped kitten with enormous blue eyes prances into the center of the kitchen holding Shaw's scarf in her mouth.

They look at each other, wonder and laughter reflected in each other's eyes.

"Here's your cat."

"Here's your scarf."

Lacey bends down and gently retrieves the scarf from the tiny kitten. "Hello, darling," she says, patting her on the head. "Thank you."

She holds up the slightly tattered length of fabric, damp from being in the kitten's mouth, and hands it to Shaw. "Now I know why this thing kept coming unraveled! I'd work on it and work on it, and somehow it would disappear during the night and show up in the oddest places." She glares at the kitten in mock accusation.

"It's beautiful," he says, running reverent fingers over the fabric before giving it back to her. "Would you put it on me, please?"

"But it's—" Lacey shakes her head; the scarf isn't worthy of him.

"Please," he repeats, his voice hoarse. He bows his head, the gesture both regal and submissive, and Lacey's heart trips. Solemnly, she drapes the scarf around his shoulders. It's too wide on one side and the border is crooked on the other, but he throws one end around his neck and Lacey swears he's never looked more handsome.

"Thank you. I shall cherish it always. And now," he bends down to pick up the kitten and holds her up for Lacey's inspection, "it's your turn."

"She's adorable!" Lacey exclaims, drawing the sweet ball of softness into her arms and cuddling her close. "Her eyes are so blue."

"Like yours," he says. "I can't explain why, but from the moment I saw her, I knew she was meant to be your cat."

Tears spring to Lacey's eyes once more, but this time she's crying with joy. "Let's call her Cleopatra—Cleo for short."

"A fine name," he agrees.

Lacey giggles as the kitten nuzzles into her chest. "Thank you, Shaw."

xoxo

They sit on the loveseat together, gobbling the strata that he made for Christmas breakfast—an egg concoction made with caramelized onions, sausage, cheese, and chunks of crusty bread. Lacey holds Cleo in her lap throughout the meal, feeding her pieces of kitten chow.

"I didn't know I was engaged to Bobby Flay," she says, shoveling another forkful of strata in her mouth. "This is fabulous."

Gold grins at the compliment, thrilled that she likes it so much. "What would you like to do today, lass?"

"I thought we could just chill on the couch with Cleo. Why, did you have something else in mind?" She scratches the kitten under her petite chin, and the cat purrs enthusiastically. The kitten adores Lacey already, and his lass glows with such happiness that he's almost jealous.

"I thought we'd take a sled out and go down the hill, you know the one past the old tree on Cotton Lane?"

"Really?" she asks dubiously.

"No." He grins again, unable to stop smiling today. "Don't think my leg could take the strain, but I'd love to watch you. I…I want you to have fun." Lacey is young and vibrant and he doesn't want her to feel like she has to stay here, cooped up with him and all his limitations.

"I do have an idea for something different we could do," she says.

He picks up a Santa hat with green Yoda ears and plops it on his head. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

She laughs and he closes his eyes for a moment, soaking up the sounds of her cheer.

"I'd like to call a few people and ask them to come over for Christmas dinner." She watches her own fingers stroke Cleo's back.

Awestruck, Gold stares at her. _Lacey is suggesting company?_

"It's just that we have so much food," she continues, meeting his gaze. "You bought and cooked enough for an army. There's no way we can possibly eat it all. And also…no one should be alone on Christmas Day."

"That's a wonderful idea," he encourages." Who would you like to invite?"

"Ruby and Granny Lucas, Mayor Mills and her little boy, Henry, and also…Emma Swan," she says. There's a practiced nonchalance in her tone as she rattles off her list, but Gold can tell she's been thinking about this for a while.

"Do you want to issue the invitations, or would you like me to?"

"I'll do it," she says. "I figure it's the least I can do, asking Sheriff Swan…since you asked her to keep the kitten so I wouldn't find out. That's what her visit to the shop was all about, right?"

"How did you know?"

"It took me a while, but as soon as I saw Cleo, everything started to make sense. Emma's weird visit and how she insisted she could only talk to you, the bowl of milk, the tin foil wrapped around the base of the tree. And of course—my missing yarn," she explains.

He snorts at the self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. "And here I was, thinking I have a decent poker face."

"Oh, you do, my love. But I know _all_ your tells." She narrows her gaze. "So let's have them all over, but only for a couple of hours. And so long as Emma spends her time talking to Regina and not batting her eyes in your direction. I don't like to share you."

"Nor I you," Shaw agrees, leaning forward to steal a kiss.

The idea of their first dinner party together – on Christmas, no less – warms his heart in a way he never could have imagined. This day is full of wonderful surprises, and it's all because of Lacey.

The soft holiday music playing from the speaker changes to a new tune, a slow, melodic rendition of "All I Want For Christmas."

Gold stands, offering a hand to his betrothed and Lacey looks up in surprise. "How long has it been since you danced, lass?" he asks teasingly.

"Too long, good sir," she answers with an exaggerated wink.

She plops Cleo onto the floor pillow the little feline had already claimed as her own, and takes his hand as he leads her toward the fire, swaying in time with the music.

Lacey smiles into his eyes , realizing that today marks another set of firsts—she's dancing with her future husband by a sparkling tree, keeping Christmas with joy in her heart.

She twirls and sways in Shaw's arms, dodging Cleo as she chases a ball of yarn around the room.

Lacey laughs, somehow knowing that next year, when it's time to hang the ornaments once more, she'll have experienced a whole year's worth of love and laughter. And Christmas memories worth celebrating the whole year through.

###


	5. Epilogue: And New Year's Eve

Summary: It felt like Lacey and Shaw needed a sexy New Year's Eve celebration, so here you go. Happy New Year, my friends!

She hadn't wanted to go to the party, anyway.

Lacey shuffles upstairs to dump her coffee-stained evening dress in the dry cleaning bin, wondering how she will console Shaw with the news that they won't be going out for New Year's Eve after all.

Cleo mewls plaintively from the bottom step. Clutching the railing for balance, Lacey turns back and grins at the tiny kitten.

Cleo, her cuddly Christmas gift, had actually done her a favor in spilling coffee all over her dress. The kitten had saved her mistress from an interminable, boring evening of snooty hors d'ouevres, stilted conversation, and a midnight countdown with a bunch of strangers fumbling through Old Lang Syne.

Lacey frowns at her dress. It's splattered with spiked coffee and dotted with bits of candle wax, and the mingled scents of hazelnut coffee and scotch tickle her nostrils. The hardened wax is no problem—it should peel off with a touch of hairdryer heat. And Dove, the town dry cleaner, could definitely get a lot of coffee and a little Scotch out of silk, right? Or maybe it was a lot of Scotch and a little coffee?

Funny how after the third cupful, she couldn't seem to recall.

 _That's what I get for trying to get drunk by candlelight before the town New Year'_ _s Eve party_ _._

Lacey stares balefully at the landing, which seems an awfully long way off as she climbs the stairs. For the first time ever she would be ringing in the new year by kissing someone wonderful at midnight, but even the security of having Shaw at her side hadn't eased her pre-party jitters.

Guilt pricks at her, and she chides herself for being so selfish. Shaw Gold isn't the any-old-ordinary-kind-of wonderful—he's her fiancé and the love of her life. While she may not care to hobnob among Storybrooke's finest, she knows Shaw is looking forward to the party.

He's the only person she can't bear to disappoint.

Lacey looks up, becoming as still as a statue in the middle of the staircase. Although she's freezing from wearing nothing but a thigh-high slip in their drafty house, she couldn't have moved if her life depended on it.

Shaw is descending the stairs in his tuxedo, looking as though he has just stepped off the cover of _GQ_. Parted rakishly to one side, his shoulder-length hair gleams in the low light, and every inch from the top of his head to his shiny black oxford dress shoes bespeaks power and grace.

"Lacey?" Gold's eyes darken, taking in her damp slip, and his brow furrows in confusion. "I don't understand. I thought we were going to the town hall."

Open-mouthed, Lacey continues to stare. Shaw is devastating in evening attire, his lean muscles rippling under his crisp white shirt. She tries to respond, but a vision of herself tearing the tuxedo to shreds with her teeth has taken center stage. Her slip, already wet with spilled coffee, grows damp between her thighs where an ache has begun to throb.

"Lass? What happened to your beautiful dress?"

"Um…" Lacey stares at the tempting patch of skin above Gold's bowtie and wets her parched lips. "Cleo jumped up on the table and knocked my coffee cup over."

"What? You're not burned are you?" He runs his large hands up and down her naked arms, his warm palms making her shudder and causing her nipples to pebble.

She intercepts the accusing look he throws at Cleo, who's still sitting on the steps fluffing her fur.

"Shaw, stop." She rolls her eyes; his attempts to protect her from the tiny cat are utterly ridiculous. "I'm fine. Besides, it was an accident."

Gold's mouth twitches as he points his cane at the kitten. "Some Christmas present. That animal is a nuisance. Has been since the moment I walked through the door with her."

Lacey crosses her arms over her now-aroused chest, ready to defend her cherished companion. "It wasn't her fault. She didn't know the mug was full. She's only a kitten finding her way."

"She'll find her way into the town incinerator if she's not careful," he warns, eyeing the cat. "Tomorrow's garbage day, you know."

Cleo chooses that moment to dart up the staircase and rub against Shaw's ankles, purring madly.

Lacey smiles in satisfaction as Shaw's severe countenance softens; she knows as well as he does that the threat is empty.

Still awestruck by his handsomeness, she gestures at his tuxedo. "You look like James Bond."

"Indeed," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. But the color rising in his cheeks is a subtle tell; she knows the compliment pleases him.

"You're so cute when you blush. Why don't you come downstairs and kiss me under the mistletoe," she suggests, her voice low and inviting.

"Wait," he says as she dumps the wet dress on the steps and tugs on his hand. "What about the party?"

"I'm sorry." She worries her lip between her teeth, feeling bad for disappointing him, but not sorry they can't attend the town festivities. She enjoyed last week's Christmas dinner with Ruby, Granny, and the others where she controlled the guest list and the timing, but she's hardly a social butterfly. Besides, a man of Shaw Gold's wealth and stature doesn't travel in the same social circles as the likes of Lacey French. They may know they belong together, but the world has other ideas, and Lacey isn't anxious to lay their love bare to censure. "My dress is stained and I smell like a boozy coffee bar."

He arches a brow. "In that entire massive closet stuffed with clothing, you have nothing else to wear for an evening out?"

"Nope." She shrugs helplessly.

"Oh, thank God." He shudders, relief flooding his features.

"Shaw?" This is not the reaction she expected, and she wonders if it's the booze talking.

"I'm gonna do much more than kiss you under that mistletoe. Come here," he orders with a growl. His dark eyes are hungry, almost feral, as he advances down the steps to close the scant distance between them.

Lacey squeals and pivots on the stairs, pretending to run. She laughs as she hears the sound of his cane tapping slowly but purposefully just beyond her heels.

Breathless, she stops the chase beneath the bough of mistletoe hanging in the doorway between the foyer and the den. She giggles when he catches her and presses his front to her back, wrapping his strong, lean arms around her waist. As her breath hitches in her throat, he slides his hands up her torso to cup her breasts.

Gooseflesh breaks out all over her body as Shaw grazes the side of her neck with his teeth, anointing her with wet, open-mouthed kisses from neck to shoulder. She gathers her hair to one side, giving him better access to her skin. She moans as the suction becomes harder, the sensations more intense. The lusty sounds he makes send a thrill of pleasure to her groin. There's not a bit of flesh on her body that he hasn't explored with his mouth and hands.

Shaw returns his attention to Lacey's breasts, plucking and rolling her taut nipples through the silk, her curves illuminated by the soft light of the Christmas tree. He presses his length against her soft bottom and grunts into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. He's rock-hard and aching to be inside her, as desperate as if it's their first time. He hums softly against her skin, both laughing and cursing; he supposes that with Lacey, every encounter will feel like the first.

"Mine," he intones, removing his mouth from her shoulder and stepping back to survey his handiwork. Pride swells in his chest when a bluish purple bruise mars her milky skin in the place where his mouth was. He wants everyone to know that Lacey belongs to him alone, that only he can make her moan and scream with passion.

She turns in his arms, pressing her lush body against his, and drags his head down for a kiss. It's a messy tangle of tongues, teeth, and lips. Gold groans when she tugs on his hair, the pleasure-pain shooting sparks down his spine.

"Too many clothes," Lacey whispers, running her hands over his tight buttocks. She needs to feel his skin next to hers. She peels his tuxedo jacket off and attacks his cufflinks. She pulls first one, then the other off with her teeth, freeing his wrists from the constricting fabric. She sucks the tender inner flesh of his wrist into her mouth, his vein throbbing against her tongue.

The feel of his life force pounding inside her mouth is incredibly arousing, and Lacey continues to lap and bite at his pulse point until he closes his eyes and his breath grows harsh and thready.

The cane balanced against his outer thigh clatters to the floor. Shaw brings his free hand down to rub her mound with his palm, then drags a finger through her slit. She's soaked, and he closes his eyes in bliss as he brings the digit to his mouth, tasting her essence. "Oh, lass. You taste incredible. I need you naked."

"You first," she says, unbuttoning his shirt and divesting him of the rest of his clothing. Pressing lightly against his bare chest, Lacey backs him into the den and toward the sofa until his knees hit the front of the cushions.

Stepping forward a fraction, he slides the thin straps of her drenched slip off her shoulders and the scrap of silk pools at the floor around her feet. She steps out of the circle of fabric, toeing off her shoes.

His love is bared to his adoring gaze, her breasts naked, her dark thatch of curls glowing in the firelight. "No knickers tonight, lass?"

In answer she palms his cock through his boxer briefs, and gives the turgid flesh a long, slow pump. "You don't need yours, either."

"Saucy girl." He growls against her thudding heart. God, he needs her breasts in his mouth while she's stroking him. His lips close around a puckered nipple, caressing first one then its twin with his tongue. Still working his cock with her fingers, Lacey moans and arches her back, straining for more, for closer contact. Shaw obliges, pushing her breasts together and opening his mouth wider to envelope as much of the soft, plump flesh as possible.

Tugging his briefs down over his lean hips, Lacey directs him to sit on the sofa. She watches him through lowered lashes, naked and hot and _hers._ Suddenly she feels shy, uncertain of what to do next. "Do you want me to…to kneel?" She begins to turn, her face warmed by desire and the heat of the fireplace.

"No." The word is a hoarse, urgent plea. He grasps her hand and turns her back to face him, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "Lass, look at me." His brogue is thick and rough with desire.

With effort, Lacey focuses her blurred gaze on Shaw's face. His pupils are blown wide, the irises almost black with want.

"What?" she whispers, trembling at the intensity and love she sees there.

"I want to watch your face while we make love. I want to see you shatter."

The words both enflame and comfort, and Lacey's eyes prickle with hot tears. No one has ever wanted her for more than a quick shag in a parked car or a dark alley, and she's still growing accustomed to the idea that this incredible man has pledged her forever. "I love you so much, Shaw." Moving her lips against his, she eases him back against the cushions and straddles his lap. She presses her breasts against his chest, her knees on either side of his lean thighs.

Shaw lines himself up with her warm, wet opening, the seated position offering a breathtaking angle as he glides inside her body with a low hiss. He splays his hands over her hips, encouraging her to set a languid pace, and he stares into her eyes before kissing her softly.

She moans into his mouth as they begin to rock, back and forth, slow, deep thrusts of hips in perfect synchronicity. Her head falls back, eyes closed in rapture, and Gold watches as she begins to writhe in his lap, her keens and whimpers cresting into a litany of cries. Leaning forward, he licks greedily at the sheen of sweat that glistens between her breasts, lapping up her salty sweetness.

Lacey opens her eyes. The intensity of his gaze trips her climax, his eyes penetrating her soul as his body penetrates hers. They are the only two people in the world this New Year's Eve, the only pair who matter. Shaw's thrusts become rapid, needy jerks, and Lacey sobs his name on a scream when she comes, the flutter and clench of her body carrying Shaw over the edge with her.

"Lacey!" He cries out, his cock twitching and pulsing as he spills himself deep within her womb.

Lacey runs her hands along his triceps as they float down from their high, the rasp of his breath hot against her neck. "You know, if you wanted to stay home tonight, you could've just said so."

He raises his sweat soaked head. "I didn't want to disappoint you, lass."

"Me?" Joyful laughter bubbles up as she wraps her arms around his neck. "You must have misunderstood. My idea of the perfect New Year's Eve is being all alone with you." She smiles, stupidly happy to drown in his chocolate eyes.

Shaw says nothing, but the little toss of his head and the sparkle in his eyes says he's more than pleased with her confession.

"Come on, I'll fix us a drink so we can toast to the New Year—2016 has been a bitch." Lacey climbs off Shaw's lap and pulls on his discarded dress shirt, ambling to the sideboard.

"With the exception of us, I'm inclined to agree," he says.

"Well," her smile is cheeky and sweet as she lights candles and pours whisky into two heavy crystal tumblers. "That goes without saying."

"Hang on, lass. We've a bottle of champagne in the back of the fridge." Shaw clambers to his feet and casts about for his boxer shorts. He picks up his trousers and shakes them out, peering first down one leg and then the other. Confused, he circles the room, even peeking behind the Christmas tree to see if his briefs may have gone flying back there in Lacey's eagerness to rip them off.

"Where are my…"

Cleo zips by in a flash of white and gray fur, carrying a familiar garment in her mouth, and Lacey chortles.

"Why, that little thief…"Shaw stares in the direction the little scamp ran, while Lacey wraps an afghan around his shoulders and guides him back to the sofa.

"Probably jealous." She shrugs, a familiar glint of mischief in her eyes. "Besides, I'm nowhere near finished with you tonight."

"Is that right?" he asks, his lips curving into a lopsided grin.

"Mmmm," she hums, and the way she runs her hands over his limbs causes his lower body to stir once more. "We still have quite a while until midnight."

THE END


End file.
